


Take you There

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Sex Pollen, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-30 06:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Sam plays a game called Fuck or Die. It's like he willed it into existence as you and Bucky explore the basement of an old Hydra lair.





	Take you There

“What about Clint?”

Through the com, Bucky hears Sam’s voice, posing the question innocently even though the pitch of him sounds like he’s grinning.

Clint scoffs back. “Stop it.”

“Okay. But imagine the scenario,” he begins.

To his right, he watches you duck behind a corner to protect yourself from bullets. Wilson would be the kind of idiot to have this sort of conversation in the middle of a firefight. There is a minute long pause where the rest of the team waits for him to continue his proposition.

“Imagine the scenario!” He repeats. There is the scattered sound of rapid machine gun fire in the distance.

A piece of broken metal is flung from your hand, slicing through two in its way into the opposite wall.

“What scenario?!” You scream, a little irritated at his stalling, “Finish the damn sentence!”

“You know....” Another annoyingly long pause. “Fuck or die.”

A chorus of groans echoes in his ear along with your own. “Jesus, Sam.” Steve mutters to your right, jogging up to escort you back out of the warehouse. “Just land the jet and get us out of here.”

Back at the compound, the questions continue as Bucky disembarks from the jet. “How bout Thor? Wha—“

“Be quiet..” You mutter, embarrassed at his hounding.

“C’mon! You haven’t been on a date in six months.”

“Sam,” you deadpan, dodging out of Steve’s way into the elevator where Bucky is standing impassively, “Sam. Fuck or die is not comparable to a date. And! I’m busy! I’m busy picking up your slack! There’s a reason you’ve been reduced to getaway driver.”

“Hey.” He warns, “That building blew up on its own.”

Sam narrows his eyes at you, then suddenly his gaze slants over behind your head where Bucky stands.

“What abo—“

You slam your shoulder against Sam, sending him against the door without another word. With your hand, you push his face against the glass, smushing his nose.

“Serves you right.” Bucky laughs as you stomp down the hall.

“Huh. You know what… It’s always a joke but she’s never had that kind of reaction before.” Sam says under his breath, hand placed gingerly on his shoulder. But the moment flits away as he drops his gaze on Bucky.

“Hey Barnes,” Sam rubs his jaw with a smirk, looking after your trail growing colder with each second. “Gotta question for you...”

Bucky already feels the heat overtake his face.

—

Yeah, he’s thought about it. He’s not an idiot, and as stupid as the question is, Fuck or Die is the kind of scenario where one answer is obviously much better than the other. Sam’s been on you all week with this line of questioning, but this is the first time Sam’s asked him.

“C’mon dude,” Sam croons after he watches the way Bucky’s face lights up like a firepit. “I know you think she’s hot. Ask her out, man. Ask her. Ask her. Ask her.”

Bucky thinks he’s going to scream because Sam’s taken the matchmaking mantle from Natasha and it is a million times worse.

In the gym, when you lift weights, Sam nudges his ribs to where sweat trickles down your sternum. When you stretch, he points to the way your shorts ride up your thighs. When you belch after a particularly big gulp of water, Sam shrugs.

“Still fine as hell.”

You raise an eyebrow at Wilson’s ogling and flip him off. It makes Bucky snicker. Yeah, he definitely thinks you’re hot. And the fact that you hardly knows he exists makes it way worse.

Well, you _know_. He’s worked with you for a while but you’re usually on extended missions and barely acknowledge him other than the occasional hello when you’re in the same vicinity. Most of the time, you’re always ducking out of rooms that he’s in.

So it makes him a little wary when there is a mission to a former Hydra base and he’s sent with you to explore the basement while the others move above ground.

You walk ahead of him, your ponytail swinging as you strut, hand carefully placed over your knife. “Why is it so dusty?”

“Haven’t been in use since the eighties. It’s a little different, but still.”

His comment makes you pause. “You’ve been here?”

“Yeah.”

Then, quietly you turn around and look at him sadly. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of fucked up they make you go on these things. They should be letting you go to the Caribbean instead. Somewhere warm. Tropical.”

Bucky shrugs, finds himself a little bashful under your concerned gaze. “‘S not so bad… And I wouldn’t even know what to do on an island. I don’t think it’s my thing.”

You laugh, become a little less alert and pull the knife from its sheath, throwing it from one hand to the other. “There’s a lot and not much to do at the same time. Slurp oysters, drink coconut water…”

He watches your eyes sparkle in some memory. “Swim into the night… watch the girls.” You shoot him a suggestive look, “You’d like it. Pretty boy like you would be popular with ‘em.”

He can only hum quietly as his face stains itself pink. You grin and use the tip of your blade to push a stack of papers over a desk, stabbing the knife into the cover of a folder. “Sand gets in your ass constantly but it’s a fair trade for the rest of it. I’ll take you there next time.”

Bucky’s heart skips a beat even though you’re probably just being nice. The image of you leaned back on a striped beach towel flashes through his mind. You, half eclipsed by the shade of an umbrella, split coconut in your hand, its juice splashing into your mouth.

He has to bite down on his cheek to derail that train of thought. He tries to focus on banal things, instead. How you’re _nice_. How this is the first real conversation he’s ever had with you. And it’s _nice_.

“What used to be here, anyway?” A stack of manila folders scatters onto the floor, gusting up a cloud of dust that makes you cough.

“Hydra has a lot of paperwork involved… lots of records. This basement used to house more of the… data.”

He looks around at the filing cabinets, drawers pulled out and empty, ashes scattered on the ground. It had been wiped, information burned out in some frantic exodus, he thinks. What’s been left behind must have not been important.

The knife is twirled into the air and you catch it with your other hand. Back and forth, you resume absentmindedly, flipping it over your shoulder, behind your back, around your elbow. And it makes him hot. Makes him think about what it’s like when you get your hands on other things.

You walk ahead, poke at a rack of empty test tube, letting your blade clink against them musically. At the edge of the table is an empty canvas box, soot covered on one side.

“Hey! What’s your status?”

Sam’s sudden yelling in your ear makes you shriek and jump in fright, hip knocking into the box causing it to topple on its side, a tin box inside flying out onto the table. “Shit!”

Apparently, it isn’t empty after all. Its contents scatter, small vials of green and purple knocking into each other before a few roll onto the floor next to your boots. Your foot lifts automatically, trying to hop out of the way.

“Move!”

Bucky’s voice rings loudly for a split second before his hand shoves you into the file cabinet and you crash into it with your entire body. You’re stunned as you try to catch yourself from falling— one, because Bucky pushed you, and two, because of the shattering of vials on the floor. “Barnes!?”

“What’s your status?” Wilson harps.

You settle back on your feet and whirl around to where Bucky hisses, stepping gingerly away from the shards by his feet. “Back up.” He commands, showing you his palm, “St-stay _fucking_ there.”

He snarls like an animal, shows you his teeth to make you understand how serious he is. He knows these vials, these colors, these fumes. You’re across the room, backed up into the off-kilter cabinet, dented from where you pitched into it.

“Status!?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Barnes growls into the link and the line goes dead silent.

You slowly press your finger to your ear, “Stand by. Nat, get us on a line in five.”

Slowly, you show him your hands, taking deliberate steps around him, “Hey. It’s just me and you. Wh-what’s happening?”

Your heart is hammering in your chest, trying to make sense of his sudden change. His eyes are red and glassy, nostrils flaring in what looks to be rage, teeth clenched and jaw flexing. “You need to go. Right now.”

“What? What are you…” Your eyes travel down to his feet where the liquid has splashed on his shoe, suddenly the purple and green have turned black, and you swear you can literally see the vapors rise. “Is this — a biological agent?”

“Yes.” Bucky’s voice is hoarse.

His hands turn into knotted fists, the metal plates in his arm whirring lowly. “_You_ need to get out of here. It’s— it’s not safe for you.”

In his nostrils is the scent of sweet pink rosemallow, buttery coconut flesh, salt spray of the ocean breeze. Warm skin rubbed down in shea. Sour tequila and a promise of sizzling sunshine and pretty girls. _I’ll take you there next time._

The only pretty girl he wants to watch is reaching out to him.

“Nat?” You call as Bucky takes deep breaths and steps away, slumping down the opposite wall. “Nat— something… something’s wrong. Bucky inhaled something from a vial… and he’s—”

“What do his pupils look like?”

You make a face reflexively because that’s an awfully specific question to ask in this moment. “Go look but keep your distance.”

His lids are fluttering. His mouth is open. He can’t get enough air into his lungs and he tilts back to alleviate the pressure in his chest. When he blinks once, twice, and finds your eyes across the room, you’re shocked to see enormous darkness— inky black, barely lined with the blue of his irises.

“Nat?” Your voice fizzles out on the last consonant of her name, the realization dawning on you.

“Do you need me to explain?” She asks quietly. “It’s… your choice. I’ll give you a moment.”

She clicks away, the tap of her shutting off the com echoes in your ear like a swinging pendulum, reverberant and chilling. Bucky is laughing dryly, his palm pressed into his forehead, “Fuck. This would be… the kind of shit that happens again.”

_Again_.

Your eye finds a folder tucked inside the box, papers half-slipped out with notes on experiments. The serum. Fertility. Breeding. Creating super soldiers through blood line and not injection.

“Didn’t work.” Bucky wheezes, shaking from head to toe. “Didn’t mean they stopped trying.”

Your hands tremors as you look from him to the paper, from his quivering lips to the blackened goo on the floor. Your heart twists when you think about his word _again. Again_. Because he’s experienced this before. _Again_. Because this has happened to him more than once or twice judging from the exhausted look on his face.

“What happens if…”

Bucky laughs and it chills you to the bone. It’s dry, hoarse, defeated, as if he’s already resigned himself to death. His Adam’s apple bobs tremulously, breath beginning to stutter in his lungs, and you see the last flicker of control he’s desperately trying to hold onto.

“N-Nat…” You whisper, “Can you…”

“Yeah.” Her response is quick and monotone, “I’ll keep them busy. Com goes off for forty-five, just to be safe. You contact me before then if you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky’s eyes attempt to focus on you even though you’re no more than a fuzzy and pulsating light. You watch his strong legs quake, his brow grows slick with sweat, lips cherry red and glistening.

“I’m gonna kill Wilson for willing this into existence.” You whisper, trying your damndest to make a joke in this terrible moment. Bucky doesn’t laugh, only blinks the clouds from his eyes, wipes his drenched neck with the back of his hand. 

“I’m sorry. This is probably painful for you in… more ways than I can imagine, but….”

Then, because his world isn’t rocked and spinning itself out of orbit enough, you begin to take deep breaths, pacing softly until you’re only a few inches away.

“You got me away from it. You put yourself back there … to save me from... feeling like that.”

He’s on fire. He’s flushed and hot like the sun. Maybe he’s thought about this. Maybe he’s entertained the possibility of having you because who doesn’t entertain those possibilities, but daydreams shouldn’t be defiled like _this._

The feel of your palm on his chest shocks him briefly. He’s sure you can feel the hammering of his heart, the flight of his self control, the terrible monster inside him that caterwauls for respite.

Bucky moans at your touch and bites his lip, flicks his tongue over his teeth, swallows thickly, tries to not think about the fallout of your decision.

-

“It’s okay.”

It’s not okay.

There is a storm inside of him. Terrible and gnawing. Screaming. Wild beasts clawing each other to shreds. This is the breeding experiment. The poison injected to make them wild with hunger and empty in all ways but one.

It seems, since the eighties, they’ve found a way to turn it into aerosol.

“Bucky, it’s okay.” You press your body to his, wicking away the temperature with your tranquil skin. You shrug out of your suit, help him remove the weight of his own clothing—that strained fabric over his groin.

He is shaking. He is shaking because he wants to tear you apart, but he knows it is wrong. He wants to be so far inside of you— to reach into the deepest part of you, to own you so completely that you never think of another living being again.

He shudders in desperation when he’s finally freed from his pants, his cock springing loose already slicked with precum and throbbing with demand. The thread of his sense pulls tight, stretched to its final frayed line. “I— I won’t be able t-to stop…. Until…”

“It’s okay.” Your firm voice soothes his rapid heartbeat. “I want to help you.”

A choked laugh tears itself from his throat, “But who will help _you_?”

-

He’s possessed by it. The curse that is eating him away. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and sluices himself up with spit, sloppy and frantic— panicked, urgent. Needing to be inside.

You shiver between him and the wall he’s pressed you against, chest heaving in apprehension. He’s begging himself, begging the poison to spare you some pain, but it’s a futile thing— he knows.

Goosebumps break out over his skin when your breath blows a cool wind onto his neck. The first thrust feel like heaven and sin smashed together into one tiny opening between your legs. There is resistance and the sound of your surprised yelp. He buries himself, inching until there is no space left between two bodies.

“I’m gonna fuck you.” Bucky groans, the very word itself is a catalyst, “Gonna fill you.”

You let go of a clipped breath when he drags his cock out. The pleasure blinds him. His pupils are endless, and they glare straight through you. Beneath him, you squirm, repositioning for any slice of comfort you can take.

Your soft mewling makes it worse. Your stuttering breath. The way you try to struggle. It’s the aggression in the formula— the way it mimics heat in an animal and reduces men to beasts.

His large hand reaches to smooth your hair away from your face, pushing it back almost tenderly as if he is clinging to the last remnant of his sanity. He peers down, watches the way you press your forehead against his chest and grip his shoulder.

You’re nervous.

And then, you tilt your chin, give him a tender kiss, sweetly smile and he can’t think of anything else but wanting to see your beautiful face screwed up in mind numbing pleasure.

—

His hands are everywhere. On your back, stomach, over the cleft of your ass, and inside your mouth. His cock is completely drenched in your slick, and the whines from earlier have changed into needy pants. He swears behind the blinding curtain of his own pleasure that he can hear you half call his name.

He drives in, thighs smacking against the flesh of your ass, thrusting himself into the secret space of you he never thought he’d know. A broken sound wrenches from your throat and he digs his fingers into the soft wet skin of your inner cheek like he wants to feel the echo itself.

“Gonna fucking breed you. Gonna make you mine and no one else’s.” It’s sick and he hates himself, but every word brings him a fraction closer to where he wants to be.

A shrill gasp. A guttural breath. A fist against the wall.

“Yeah? You like that?” He’s lost to the darkness, “Take it. Take all of it. Don’t fight me, darlin.”

Your thighs pinch together in a desperate attempt to push him away, arching into the wall until your body becomes a crescent shape. He’s tearing you apart but the way his fingers curl against your hip bone, his palm against your cheek to give you a cushion from the hard wall — those things are almost loving.

Bucky presses his mouth to the base of your neck where the bony notch of your vertebrae begins your spine. He sucks a bruise into it, trails his lips left to your shoulder and back again to kiss a line behind your ear. All the while, he fucks you brutally, hunting down the release that floods his veins.

He turns you around, drags you into the floor and watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. He memorizes the lines on your face, the red and open mouth, the eyes rolling back, lost to pure sensation. You’re going to save him. You’re going to save him with your exposed neck and butterfly wing lashes and your peach flesh cunt squeezing his cock like a fist.

Your legs wrap around his waist as you attempt to focus, “B-Bucky... Buck? Christ… Bucky!”

“Yeah…” He mutters into your collar, “Yes.”

“C-c-can’t…! Bucky!”

It’s so sweet, the way your hands grip his shoulders as his name spills from your lips. He licks your chin, pushes his tongue into your mouth and sucks the very air from your lungs.

Another strangled pant and then is a gush. A slippery pulsing sensation from inside of you that slides right out, soaks his thighs in liquid and he nearly laughs at the way you jerk up into him, tits pressing against his chest, nails scratching four red lines down his arm.

He stills for just a second before the fire stokes higher and hotter. Your fluids coat him, makes it easier, and the thrill of your blissed-out writhing beneath him is so damn sweet.

Before the end of it, he thinks with what little control he has left, he’ll give you another one.

—

Natasha crackles back into your ear right on time. Forty-five minutes and you’re boneless and limp, pressed onto Bucky’s side with your head on his chest, trying to catch your breath.

“Status?” She asks carefully.

“We—we’re okay. Just…” A gust rushes from your lungs, cools the planes of his chest. “Need a minute. Where’s everyone else?”

“Sent them off. You two want to come back to the jet first?”

Bucky squeezes your arm, nods yes, doesn’t dare to look at your face.

\--

Natasha is expressionless when the two of you make your way into your seats, Bucky holding you up by your waist with one of your arms around his shoulder. The elastic from your ponytail has been long snapped off, and the enormous knot of your hair tangles its way down your back.

“I suggest staying in the back.” Natasha proposes, “Less questions. Downwind of the AC.”

He feels congested by embarrassment, stutters an affirmation and takes you along with him. The both of you sit in a daze, overwhelmed by the events of the past hour and the raw throbbing of your bodies.

He settles in next to you, try to tug the clusters of your hair loose with cautious hands as you lean on his arm in silence. The others shuffle in, one at a time, loud conversation bouncing between their mouths.

“Thought it was gonna be good, man.” Sam complains, “Got a lot of big ol’ nothin.” He pauses and looks down his shoulder where Bucky sits stiffly, you slumped nearly over his lap. “What happened to you two?”

Bucky grimaces, hopes to all hell the briny scent of his skin doesn’t catch an updraft. “I’m not feeling well, Wilson.” You mutter, “Caught something infectious down there. Some experimental flu virus, maybe. Best keep away.”

Sam puts both hands up and saunters off, “That’s enough for me.”

“We’ll get you checked out back at the lab.” Steve assures with a small smile, “Buck’ll take care of ya for now.”

If only Steve knew what he was saying.

You hum quietly, reach up to take his hand as the jet lifts off the ground. “Bucky,” you whisper, “It’s really okay.”

Beneath the collar of your suit is a dreadfully purple mark from his mouth. Your hair covers the trail of matching blotches on the back of your neck and shoulder. Between your thighs, even though the two of you tried— a sticky pool still remains of him. You shift under his gaze, rearrange your thighs and hiss softly.

It’s not okay. He wants to make it better. He wants to take that pain in your voice and crush it between his teeth, but instead all he can do is nod.

“Bucky,” you say again, shocking him as your soft hand reaches up to cup his cheek, “Next time… no more Hydra bases for you. We’re going to the Caribbean—I’ll… I’ll take you.”

Then, the tiniest of smirks as you pull his face down, press your kiss-bruised lips to his cheek. “We did the fuck or die… only thing left now is a date.”

He laughs and leans his head back, presses his palm to his forehead and feels his world rock out of orbit for the second time that day. The dreamy smell of rosemallows returns along with shea butter he imagines being rubbed onto your skin, warm sand caught in your hair and between your fingers.

Out of view of the others, he leans down and presses his lips to yours. Bucky licks the sweat from your mouth, pretends it’s ocean salt spray and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> It's just smut! Thanks for reading alsjdflajsdfald


End file.
